Sand and Mud
by Archemios
Summary: The Tallarn were never meant to serve in the trenches, but being allied with the Death Korps against the orks changed that. This is my attempt at a proto-novel. I'd appreciate constructive criticism, but no flames please.
1. Chapter 1

**So, I'm a huge Imperial Guard (Astra Militarum) fanboy. It's my army of choice. My two favorite regiments would have to be the Tallarn Desert Raiders and the Death Korps of Krieg, with Valhallan Ice Warriors being close.**

 **This fic is sort of my attempt at constructing a novel. You guys are my, well, beta readers. Tell me what you like, what you don't like, how I can make it better, etc. Keep in mind, I may never actually finish this (fanfiction syndrome, am I right?), but I'd still appreciate any help. One thing I've been curious about is what a good word count is for a chapter. Anyway, read and enjoy.**

I

He longed for the sands of his home world. No son of Tallarn should be in such a miserable situation as his: stationed in an Emperor-forsaken quagmire, watching from a distance as shells were dropped upon a city. Kilometers of trenches and razor-wire protected the Imperials from the city's retribution. Mehmet al-Harba tightened his hands around his lasgun. The waiting was insufferable.

This was no way to make war.

Yet it was the way of his comrades, the grim stoics known as the Death Korps. They were siege specialists from the hellish world of Krieg, and al-Harba had heard that they maintained their population through unnatural and blasphemous technologies. Still, they had some reputation as devout and faithful servants of the Imperium, willing to lay down their lives in battle.

Still, it was unnatural for the Tallarn to be stationed here. It was a muddy ball, too difficult of terrain for horses – at least, too difficult for _Tallarn_ horses. The Death Korps rode something entirely alien; as like a horse as an ogryn were to a man. So, the Tallarn were restricted from their usual hit-and-run tactics. They were reduced to serving as trench-diggers. Their prized marksmen had all been whisked away, destined to serve as snipers across No Man's Land. Occasionally they could mobilize in their Chimeras on scouting operations.

What al-Harba would give to have been a better shot. At least those men were doing something. All he was doing was standing watch for raids – raids that came infrequently and always ended in bloody smears. The enemy never got closer than 20 meters before stubbers, bolters and autocannons cut them down. The Korpsmen were very good at defending their trenches.

With a sigh, al-Harba tapped into his vox-bead to report another raiding party. Fortunately, orks were never very stealthy. Almost instantly, the trenches erupted with a staccato of stubber and heavy bolter fire. Greenskins died in droves, torn apart by bullets and explosive rounds. Eventually their lines broke and even the hardiest broke off their attack. Al-Harba had once taken pock-shots at the approaching orks, but it was a moot point.

Finally, after a grueling four hours, al-Harba was relieved by Ben al-Khatar. They exchanged a few words, mostly updates about the campaign, as well as a few sticks of tabac, before parting. Al-Harba made his way towards the trenches set aside for the Tallarn. The Krieg kept to themselves; one of their commissars had explained that the Krieg were not used to more ostentatious regiments. Al-Harba bristled at the memory. To call the Tallarn _ostentatious_! The nerve!

Though, after spending some weeks with them, al-Harba could not argue that – by comparison – the Tallarn _were_ ostentatious. Their battle dress, far barer than many Astra Militarum regiments, was still partial to silks and bright colours to denote rank and class – the Krieg used only markings. The men of the desert world, while hardy and devout, played music and smoked tabac and lho for recreation; the Krieg had no recreation. Even their system of worship, musical and spiritual, seemed garish compared to the Krieg's somber prayers.

Al-Harba felt something between sympathy and pity for the Korpsmen in the next trench. He shook the feeling away and sat down beside his comrades, Abu al-Dukhan and Ali al-Shabh. Al-Dukhan was a bearded, larger man playing his _oud_. Al-Shabh was thin and dark-skinned, writing something – most likely, more poetry for his wife. While polygamy was a popular enough practice on Tallarn – and in other worlds of the Imperium – few took to it. Al-Shabh would never practice it; his wife was all the woman he'd ever want or need, and he was hopelessly in love with her.

'Al-Khatar says their commissars come over, often,' al-Harba noted, 'presumably because we're easier to get along with.'

'Aye.' al-Shabh nodded, 'It's the first time we've ever been the popular ones.'

'I don't understand this antipathy towards the Death Korps.' al-Dukhan shrugged, stopping in his playing, 'I rather admire them. They are efficient, and quite stoic.'

'A little too efficient and stoic.' al-Harba muttered, 'I've never once seen them relax, or take off those damned masks.'

Al-Dukhan and al-Shabh mumbled their agreements. The masks were largely unnecessary, considering the lack of chemical or biological weapons being used against them. If he didn't believe the Krieg were incapable of such things, al-Harba would have bet the rebreathers were a fetish, or possibly a symbol of pride. The Desert Raider doubted the Krieg could feel anything, much less pride.

'Still, I think we should extend the hand of friendship to them.' al-Dukhan suggested, 'They are our comrades. We've been sharing trenches with them for nearly a month.'

'It is customary to extend an invitation to our comrades.' al-Shabh noted, 'It is what separates us from the unrulier tribes of our home world.'

'We are supposed to be better than the Jaban or Haqid tribes.' al-Harba sighed in resignation, 'We are Takrim, after all.'

'Mostly Takrim, anyway.' al-Dukhan said.

'We have shared water and shed blood together.' al-Shabh challenged, 'We are _all_ Takrim, now.'

'I shall go and extend our invitation.' al-Habra stood, 'I suppose I should offer a gift, too.'

'Something practical.' al-Shabh agreed, then snapped his fingers, 'A knife.'

'I do have a spare.' al-Habra nodded, 'Very well. I'm off.'

His fellow guardsmen watched as he made his way towards the Krieg trenches. Two Korpsmen stood watch at the entrance, rigid as morbid statues. Al-Habra inhaled sharply; how best to approach them? After internal debate, he decided there was no good way other than to get it over with. He walked forward.

'Greetings, brother guardsmen.' he put his hands together, respectfully, 'My name is Mehmet ibn Ahmed ibn Kadar al-Habra of the Takrim. I am a dutiful servant of the God-Emperor of Mankind, glory forever be to His name. I come, with water and gift, to extend an offer of camaraderie with you, men of Krieg.'

The two Korpsmen exchanged a brief look at one another that was unreadable through their masks. They gave no response. Al-Harba exhaled slowly.

'I offer this knife as a token of my friendship.' al-Habra unsheathed his spare dagger,

Immediately, both Korpsmen steadied their lasguns at him. Al-Habra blinked in surprise and showed open palms. He approached them, slowly, hands raised and blade in his palm.

'Be at ease, brother guardsmen.' he slowly extended the knife, pommel-first, towards the nearest Korpsman, 'This is a gift – for you.'

The Korpsman hesitated – even through his greatcoat and rebreather, al-Harba could tell the Korpsman was unsure how to proceed. He awkwardly looked towards his companion who kept his own lasgun aimed squarely at al-Harba. A thought occurred to the Desert Raider.

'You do understand me, don't you?' he asked. It was not uncommon for regiments from different planets to be unable to understand one another's form of Low Gothic.

'Yes,' the Korpsman closest to al-Harba said in a guttural accent filtered through his mask, 'just barely.'

'Ah, so you do speak.' al-Harba grinned, 'Please, accept my gift.'

'We are not permitted to accept trophies or contraband, of any sort.' the Korpsman explained. When al-Harba processed the confusing inflections, he laughed.

'This is no trophy or contraband,' he explained, 'it is a gift – a practical knife for use in combat, made by fine Tallarn smiths. If you reject it, I warn you, I will take offense.'

After a moment, the Korpsman awkwardly took the knife. He eyed it through his green-glass lenses before putting it away in his kitbag. The Korpsmen returned to standing rigidly. Al-Harba chose to ignore the lack of thanks.

'If you do not mind my asking, what is your name, sir?' al-Harba asked the Korpsman.

'My designation is 509J,' the Korpsman said by rote, 'serial number: 509-10-"

'Surely,' al-Harba interrupted, 'they give you names on Krieg?'

The Korpsman stared at him for a while in silence, before responding.

'I am called Jan Reich.' he said, at last.

'Well, Jan Reich of Krieg,' al-Harba began, glad to be getting somewhere, 'my comrades and I were hoping you and your compatriots could join us during your recreation time.'

'We do not have recreation time.' Reich seemed puzzled – almost offended.

'Then please explain to your superior that it is customary for the comrades of warriors of Tallarn to accept such invitations – lest they cause great offense.' al-Harba explained, 'It would bring much honor to us, if you were to accept.'

'I…' the Korpsman stopped, 'I will inform my superior of the situation.'

'This is all I ask.' al-Harba put his hands together once more, 'Farewell, brother guardsmen.'

With that, al-Harba returned to his lines. His comrades were still sitting there, listening to al-Dukhan play the _oud_. Several other soldiers had joined them, including soldiers from the female company. Al-Harba wasn't sure how he felt about women fighting, yet. Many tribes adopted the practice on Tallarn, but the Takrim generally placed female life as sacred – the murder of women was the unholiest of taboos. Still, he had seen them fight; they were just as able as any man.

'How did it go, Mehmet al-Harba?' al-Shabh asked.

'It could have gone better,' al-Harba confessed, 'but I believe they will come.'

'I knew the Krieg were not the type to offend.' al-Dukhan laughed, heartily.

'It was like pulling teeth, though.' al-Harba yawned, his watch catching up with him, 'The Korpsman I talked to – his name is Jan Reich of Krieg – told me the Krieg have no recreation time.'

'So the rumours are true, then.' al-Shabh shook his head, 'Poor souls. Even the most dutiful of our ranks observes the Sabbath.'

'Unless the enemy decides otherwise.' al-Dukhan noted, 'Remember Cholus?'

'Chaos dogs.' al-Harba spat at the same time as his companions.

Nearly every world in the galaxy had suffered at the hands of the myriad enemies of mankind at one time or another. Some worlds had suffered repeated assaults by foes, and thus had an uncanny hatred for said foe. For the Tallarn, it was the blight of the Archenemy – particularly the Iron Warriors and their descendants. A xeno was born a blasphemer; they could not help it. But a follower of Chaos? That was a decision, and thus the vilest of betrayals.

'Greetings, brother guardsmen.' Leila al-Jamila said as she approached. Al-Dukhan and al-Shabh greeted her in turn, but al-Harba stayed silent. 'Do not look so dour, Mehmet al-Harba.'

'Forgive me, sister guardsman.' al-Harba purposely avoided her name, 'I have been spending time with the Krieg.'

'No wonder you seem so grim.' al-Jamila forced a smile; clearly she wasn't buying his excuse.

Sensing the tension in the air, al-Dukhan scratched his beard thoughtfully before speaking up.

'Leila al-Jamila, you are looking lovely today.' he rumbled, offering a fatherly smile.

'A hundred thanks, Abu al-Dukhan.' she replied, placing her hands together.

There were many odd mannerisms the Tallarn had picked up from off-worlders, but the shortening of names was not one of them – not unless ordered to, anyway. Seldom would a superior officer or commissar order a restriction on such a respectful custom; not to say it did not happen on occasion.

Al-Harba listened to the mindless exchange between al-Jamila and al-Dukhan. Nothing but pleasantries and smiles. How al-Harba hated to see her smile; it made him feel enflamed with passion. There was nothing wrong with this, of course. Still, something about the emotions made al-Harba feel robbed of virtue. It didn't help that she had shot down each of his advances with all the surety of a sniper.

'Forgive me brother and sister guardsmen,' he said after a while, 'I am feeling fatigued. I'm going to retire for the night.'

'Very well.' al-Dukhan seemed almost hurt, 'I wish you well, Mehmet al-Harba.'

Al-Harba said his goodbyes, paying proper respect to each of his comrades in turn. Saying them to al-Jamila had felt like shoving his bayonet through his heart, but it would have brought shame on his family to be discourteous to a woman. Besides, if a goodbye was all it took to get away from her, it was worth it.

Returning to his dugout in the trenches, al-Harba removed his puttees and squeezed their collected dirty water into the water bowser. The water would be filtered by machine, though not nearly as well as any guardsman would like. With another yawn, the Desert Raider removed his boots and brushed the mud from them. Removing his kit and _keffiyeh_ scarf, al-Harba dressed down and wrapped himself in the blankets upon his cot.

Sleep was painfully slow in coming. His dreams were plagued with the whistling of unseen shells, screaming orks emerging from fog banks, and grim skulls bearing down on him. He woke several times before true nightfall, always in a cold sweat. In the end, the dreams faded into ambiguity and al-Harba could finally collapse into an exhausted sleep.

-Break-

Al-Harba woke to sirens and the sounds of Hydra flak cannons firing. He threw the covers from himself and quickly assembled his kit. He barely had time to tie his scarf before Commissar Dantz had entered the dugout, kicking the still-sleeping guardsmen awake.

'Up, you dogs!' Dantz roared, 'There's a bleeding air raid going on! You can expect a raid, soon enough!'

'Must be a big one.' al-Harba heard one of his comrades say.

It was true that there had never been an air raid that made it so close before. Usually the Krieg could shoot all the ork bombers and fighters down over No Man's Land. The greenskins must have been amassing for a big assault. As if to prove his theory, the sound of inhuman roars could be heard over the air raid sirens. Al-Harba cursed as he shuffled out of the dugout.

'Up and at 'em, boys!' Dantz pulled the Tallarn from the trenches, seemingly everywhere at once, 'The Krieg are already in position! Don't let them outshine the Takrim!'

That idea certainly put a spring in each of their steps as they raced to the edge of the trenches. Al-Dukhan and al-Shabh manned their heavy bolter. Al-Jamila fell in beside al-Harba, much to his dismay, and the two found positions along the trenches, steadying their lasguns. Before them was the vast, empty fog glaring back at them. They could hear the guttural language of the orks just beyond the mist. Spotlights lit up the fog, sending outlandish shadows across No Man's Land.

'Light them up!' Dantz ordered. Their lieutenant, al-Hakim, was used to being overstepped by the zealous Dantz.

Immediately, No Man's Land burned as bright as a sun, the air filled with tracers, bolts, and las-fire. Some of the shadows twitched and fell, but most were still coming. The fog began to turn dark with xenos blood misting the air. Shortly after, inaccurate return fire began stitching across their lines. The man beside al-Harba took a crude bolt to the shoulder and flew backwards, but al-Harba didn't flinch; for every shot that found a target, ten more missed.

Then, finally, the orks erupted from the fog. Like most orks, they adopted the ways of the foes they'd been fighting longest – in this case, the Krieg. Most of the orks wore crude bowls of steel and poorly-stitched rebreathers over ramshackle greatcoats. Somehow, these twisted caricatures of the Death Korps were speeding up to meet the Tallarn, ignoring the number of their dead piling up from bolter and las-fire. They threw parodies of stick grenades, most falling short with the orks' usual nearsightedness. Most.

Al-Harba focused on individual orks as they materialized out of the fog, taking care to shoot each in their heads. They fell, either to his shots or the combined fire of his allies. Orks were certainly a resilient breed. They kept coming, screaming their lungs out. It wouldn't be long before their position was overrun.

'Fix bayonets!' Dantz ordered.

Most Tallarn disdained bayonets, and instead unsheathed their daggers and scimitars. Nearly all were ornately-wrought masterpieces from their home world, though some fought with weapons gifted to them by other regiments – hear a trench mace, there an axe. Dantz powered up his power fist, while al-Hakim energized his own blade.

Then the orks managed to get over the razor-wire as easily as if it had been string. They ignored the ghastly cuts it left in their arms and legs and kept coming. They ignored the piles of their own dead they were climbing, eager to get into the thick of a melee. With a final effort, the orks broke over the top and slammed into the defending Tallarn. Very likely, this same incident was occurring in the Krieg trenches, as well.

Al-Harba shoved his remaining dagger into the eye socket of an approaching ork, firing a salvo from his lasgun to keep others' heads down while he wrenched the blade free. Al-Jamila was using two daggers with all the finesse of a blade-master. Al-Dukhan and al-Shabh were fighting orks off their position with shovels and picks. The others were faring little better, and breaks began to appear in the line where the greenskins slaughtered Tallarn soldiers.

'How do you think the Krieg are faring?' al-Jamila managed to find the time to ask, almost breathless from the effort of dodging crude axes.

'Knowing those bastards, they probably shot all the orks dead before they got there.' al-Harba grumbled, slitting an ork's throat with considerable effort. By the Throne, were these things tough!

After what felt like an hour of melee – though in reality, it could not have been more than a minute – al-Harba could see they were not going to win. He shared a look of remorse with al-Jamila and his heart ached. Still, something caught his eye. Dantz and al-Hakim had moved back to converse with their vox-operator, most likely to receive orders. Both officers looked stunned and Dantz made the sign of the aquila over his chest. Moments later, al-Hakim's voice came over the vox-network.

'Our lines are collapsing across the board,' he said, calm as always, 'Command has ordered the reinforcing of the next trench system. The Krieg will begin shelling the orks within the next minute. It has been an honour serving with you – you have all brought honor to your clans, and to the Takrim.'

Al-Harba was speechless. The Krieg were about to shell their own in the process of eliminating the orks! The sheer audacity of the plan, the callous waste of precious human life, left al-Harba so stunned he didn't even notice the ork munition blasting through his kneecap until he was face down in the mud. The pain was so intense, he blacked out.

When he came to, al-Jamila was carrying him back to the dugouts. All the Tallarn were retreating for the relative safety of the dugouts, covering their retreat with las-fire. There were so few of them left that al-Harba wanted to weep. The orks were closing in, growing closer and closer. Finally, al-Harba heard a sound he had grown to dread: the whistling of approaching shells the size of a man breaking through the air.

'Leila al-Jamila,' al-Harba found the strength to speak, 'I think I love you.'

'Be silent, Mehmet al-Harba.' the woman sighed in irritation, 'We are almost there.

Then the world erupted in fire and mud. The detonations of munitions and the displacement of the earth itself drowned out the screams of man and ork alike. Al-Harba felt himself fall, felt himself buried alive in mud before pain and shock drove him back into unconsciousness.


	2. Chapter 2

**Sorry it took so long. I know the fighting isn't great in this chapter, but not every chapter needs a fight, right? These things are really hard to write, so instead of trying for a novel-length, I'm going to aim for a short story. Mostly because I don't have a plot set, lol.**

II

Silence was the only sound to be heard, and darkness the only sight to be seen. A great weight resting on him was the only sensation telling al-Harba he was alive. With a struggle, he dug his way free of fire-caked mud and ruined flakboard. In a stupor, he was not sure if he was digging free or deeper, but was greeted by the sight of fog banks and a hidden sun. He breathed deeply, gathering his senses. A dull pain could be felt in his left knee, but nothing beyond that.

When he looked around him, he felt as if he were in Hell.

The shelling had reduced the trenches to a field of massive pits and foxholes while the ensuing firestorm had baked all the moisture out of the ground. Ash and eroded dirt made small dunes as far as the eye could see, only half-burying the hundreds of human and ork corpses burnt almost beyond recognition. Was he all that was left?

Out of the fog came other shapes, and al-Harba searched desperately for a lasgun. Picking one up, he ignored the scorched metal burning into his palms as he leveled the rifle at the approaching shapes. Then he stopped. A Korpsman was carrying one of his comrades over his shoulders. Near him, another Korpsman was searching for survivors. Al-Harba figured they must be survivors from the other trenches, since it was unlikely that the Krieg would send parties out to search a place they thought was teeming with orks.

'Halt!' the unhindered Korpsman raised his rifle, 'Who goes there?'

'A human.' al-Harba snapped.

The Korpsman approached, eyeing him through those soulless lenses. After a moment, he turned away and kept searching.

'Wait!' al-Harba shouted, 'Help me up!'

'Your wound is a hindrance.' the Korpsman said, 'If I am forced to carry you, I cannot protect my own comrades.'

'Am I not your comrade?' al-Harba challenged, 'Have we not shared these trenches against the orks?'

The Korpsman remained silent, but al-Harba wasn't sure if the man were conflicted or not. Finally, the Krieg helped him up.

'Are there other survivors?' he asked, quietly.

'Very likely, if I survived.' al-Harba nodded. He could not be the only survivor – he could not!

'We cannot waste all day digging.' the Korpsman shook his head, 'The orks will return in force, soon.'

'We must try.' al-Harba said, 'If nothing else, we could use the extra manpower.'

The Korpsman nodded and set al-Harba back down. His able-bodied comrade did the same with their wounded; both broke out entrenching tools and set about excavating. A few of the bodies stirred and a shape would occasional coalesce in the fog, revealing himself as a man. Within the hour, four Tallarn were recovered. None of them were al-Harba's friends. None of them were al-Jamila.

'The Takrim are truly gone.' a man with burnt features said. He was gaunt and bereft of their iconic scarf, but al-Harba knew he was Tallarn.

'We are Takrim.' another said, 'Even if we are all that is left, we are Takrim.'

'Are we sure this is not _Aljahim_?' a third asked; the Tallarn name for Hell.

The fourth Tallarn could not speak. He had been one of the freshest recruits sent from Tallarn – barely a man who had seen limited combat amongst the tribes of their home world. Now he stared, wide-eyed, at everything. Al-Harba ignored him as surely as the Krieg did. It was not that he didn't sympathize with the youth; his mind was stressed with its own problems, though.

'We should get moving,' the Korpsman said, 'The orks are coming.'

'How can you tell?' al-Harba asked. Al-Jamila might have escaped; they had not found her body.

'Those shadows,' the Korpsman motioned at the fog, 'they are too large to be men.'

Al-Harba could make out shapes in sandstorms, but the fog was so thick and blurred everything, he could not be sure what was man and what was debris. For all he knew, the shadows were tricks of the light – there might have been nothing out there. Still, he chose to defer to the Korpsman's wisdom; they specialized in fighting under such miserable conditions. Besides, if there were any more survivors, they would have been found by now.

'Very well.' al-Harba nodded, shouldering his lasgun.

The small party of Takrim and Korpsmen made their way towards friendly lines. Al-Harba wasn't sure how far back the Imperials had dug in; all he knew for sure was that he was in the new No Man's Land with bloodthirsty orks on his heels. The Tallarn who lost his scarf – al-Harba thought his name was Abd al-Sadiq – helped al-Harba walk the long trail back towards the Krieg trenches.

There would be more of the 209th Tallarn Mechanized Cavalry there – more of the Takrim tribe, though not his battle brothers and sisters. Their rough riders were held in reserves, along with their armour support. Truth was, most of the motor pool had been kept in the rear. Still, they were not al-Shabh, or al-Dukhan, or al-Jamila, or any of the other hundred poor souls lost in the bombardment. The shellshock Tallarn was being led forward by another Desert Raider, lost in his horror.

'Tell me, Korpsman,' al-Harba couldn't help but ask, 'did Jan Reich of Krieg survive?'

'I _am_ Jan Reich.' the Korpsman responded. Al-Harba eyed him in surprise. 'Your name was… al-Harba, yes?'

'Yes, it was.' the Tallarn nodded. What were the odds his rescuer would be the same man standing watch yesterday? 'The God-Emperor must smile upon us.'

Reich said nothing, eyeing the wasteland through his rebreather. Perhaps "smile" was too strong a word. The ruined trenches and the endless dead were certainly not the best evidence of the Emperor's beneficence. Although it didn't seem it, it was very likely Reich was also mourning the death of so many of his comrades. At least, al-Harba hoped the Korpsman was capable of _that_ much humanity, at least. Then again, perhaps the Krieg weren't that human. Perhaps their world didn't allow for mourning.

How sad, al-Harba thought.

They walked for what felt like hours, al-Sadiq supporting al-Harba the entire way. Behind them, the sound of inhuman roars and coughing war engines resounded through the fog. The orks were growing ever closer. Al-Harba knew they'd be overrun before they could clear No Man's Land; it was only a matter of time.

'You should leave us.' the wounded Korpsman spoke up, 'Our injuries are slowing you down.'

Al-Harba balked at the suggestion, but couldn't contest it. It was only logical to abandon the wounded to save the majority. Still, the rationale did not excuse the suggestion. Immediately the Tallarn protested. No self-respecting member of the Takrim would abandon one of their own while they still breathed. The Korpsmen were resolute; the orks would catch up with them, slaughter them all. Finally, as the only wounded Tallarn, al-Harba spoke up.

'He's right,' he said, 'We are wounded. We are a liability – we will only get you all killed.'

This silenced his fellow tribesmen. Their faces could have been etched from cold stone. It was harsh logic; almost cruel. None could deny it, try as they might.

'Brother, we cannot simply abandon you.' al-Sadiq said, softly.

'To save six, two is a worthy sacrifice.' al-Harba pointed out, 'I could very well die from this injury, even if we did make it back to our lines.'

'But we've staunched the bleeding,' another Tallarn said, 'you can be saved!'

'At the cost of all our lives?' al-Harba snapped, growing somber, 'No. Leave me.'

'We will not.' al-Sadiq shook his head, burned face hardening.

'That is an order!' al-Harba shouted. He was a corporal; none present passed him in rank.

The Tallarn eyed each other.

'We cannot leave you helpless.' al-Sadiq said, but his tone showed his resolve leaving him.

'I'll stay.' the shellshock Tallarn spoke up, 'I'm not of much use right now, anyway.'

Al-Sadiq nodded, though not without hesitation. With a sad smile, he said to himself, 'What is one more life?'

The Korpsmen lowered the wounded comrade into a foxhole beside al-Harba and the shellshock youth. Perhaps he imagined it, but al-Harba could have sworn he saw Reich pat the wounded Korpsman on the arm, that they held each other's gaze a little longer, before breaking away. Perhaps al-Harba only saw what he wanted desperately to see in these warriors: compassion. Within minutes, the unwounded disappeared into the mist in a jog.

The wounded and the shellshock were alone, left only with the distant shouting of the orks, and the occasional scream of a forgotten survivor being cut down. All the while, the sound of distant engines was growing closer. The greenskins were sending their fleet of armour forward to take advantage of the gain in ground. If they could build up enough momentum, al-Harba figured, they might be able to break through the Imperial lines again.

Finally, the grim thoughts became too much to bear and al-Harba turned to his compatriots, curious as to their names. He was ashamed to confess he did not know his brother Tallarn's name.

'I am called Mehmet al-Harba,' he gave his short name, 'What are your names?'

'I am called Jafar al-Hakim.' the shellshock youth said.

'Jafar _ibn Hassan_ al-Hakim?' al-Harba asked. Hassan al-Hakim had been their lieutenant.

'Aye.' the young al-Hakim nodded, voice choking back a sob.

'My condolences, Jafar al-Hakim.' al-Harba bowed his head in respect, 'He was a great man.'

'He could still live,' the youth's voice broke, 'he could have survived, like us.'

Al-Harba doubted a father would abandon his son in this hell, but he did not bring this up; better to let the youth grieve in his own way. It was not uncommon in the Astra Militarum to have regiments replenish their ranks by reproduction – especially in the tribal relations of the Tallarn. It was very likely al-Hakim had been born into the 209th, had never seen their home world. Al-Harba could have wept that the son of Tallarn might never get the chance.

But Tallarn wasted no tears – water was ever precious in the desert.

'And your name, Korpsman?' al-Harba asked, changing the subject.

'My designation-' the Krieg began.

'I asked for your name, brother guardsman,' al-Harba sighed, 'I will not call you by your designation.'

After a moment of silence, the Korpsman spoke again.

'My name is Aaron Reich.'

'You are a relative to Jan Reich of Krieg?' al-Harba asked, stunned at the coincidence.

'We are all brothers.' was all Reich said. Al-Harba wasn't sure if this was an allusion to the mysterious and nearly heretical method by which Krieg repopulated itself, or if it was some religious parable about the brotherhood of humanity. He chose not to press the issue.

'Well, Jafar al-Hakim and Aaron Reich of Krieg,' al-Harba grinned, 'did either of you imagine that this is how we'd die?'

'I was hoping to see Tallarn, before the end.' al-Hakim said, somberly. So, al-Harba reckoned, he _had_ been born into the 209th.

'It doesn't matter how we die,' Reich said, 'only that we die fighting the enemies of man.'

'Spoken like a true servant of the God-Emperor.' al-Harba nodded, 'Tabac?'

'Much appreciated, Mehmet al-Harba.' al-Hakim took the offered stick.

'Korpsmen don't smoke.' Reich said, plainly.

'Not even at the end?' al-Harba asked, surprised.

'There is no need to.'

Al-Harba grunted at that. Maybe the Tallarn were ostentatious, when compared to this somber lot. Still, he saved a stick for Reich just in case. He might change his mind, later. The Tallarn snorted at the idea of a Korpsman changing his mind. A Tallarn would sooner imbibe in alcohol.

'Mehmet al-Harba,' al-Hakim began, 'what is Tallarn like?'

'Maintaining silence will increase our chances of survival.' Reich said.

'We're in No Man's Land, surrounded by greenskins, and your friends will very likely begin shelling us soon.' al-Harba pointed out, 'We may as well talk.'

Rolling over, grunting in pain, al-Harba addressed the youth.

'Tallarn is a world of endless desert,' he explained, 'sand as far as the eye can see. Most of our cities are beneath the dunes, bastions against the holocaust waged against us over ten thousand years ago.'

'It sounds bleak.' al-Hakim frowned, but al-Harba shook his head.

'No. It is beautiful.' he corrected, 'It is clean and preserved. Whatever blood is spilt between tribes is buried beneath the sands, bleached by the sun. It is an ever-shifting sea that hides much life.'

'What kind of life?' al-Hakim asked.

'Many species, mostly venomous,' al-Harba confessed, 'but also oases of brilliantly-coloured flora, and the tenacious shrew. Who could forget our hardy steeds?'

'You make it sound so nice.' al-Hakim sighed, 'I wish I could see it.'

'You will,' the older Tallarn stated, 'in this world, or the next.'

A moment of silence passed, broken only by the roars of approaching orks and the occasional chatter of gunfire. Al-Hakim turned to the Korpsman.

'What is your home world like?' he asked.

'It's a world.' Reich said, simply, 'It's well-organized.'

'But what is it _like_?' the youth stressed, 'What are the skies like? The land? The plants and animals? I've heard Krieg is lifeless, but if that were so, how could you live there?'

'The sky is toxic gas and the land is radioactive.' Reich explained, 'There are no plants or animals on the surface.'

'And underground?' al-Harba asked; Krieg was beginning to sound awfully like Tallarn.

'Just humans, and our genhanced steeds.' Reich said, 'And rats.'

'What do you all eat?' al-Hakim asked.

'Even our world has some life.' al-Harba noted.

'Our food is processed and provides us with all the sustenance we require.' the Korpsman said.

'No wonder the Krieg are a somber lot.' al-Hakim muttered, then flustered in embarrassment, 'Forgive me, brother guardsman.'

'There is nothing to forgive.' Reich said. After a moment, he sat up straighter and reached for his lasgun. 'Behind you, Pvt. al-Hakim; something is coming out of the mist.'

Both al-Hakim and al-Harba spun to face the approaching enemy, lasguns at the ready. Again, al-Harba could not discern shadows in the fog from tricks of light, but he trusted the Korpsman's sight in such matters. Sure enough, in time, a form began to take shape in the fog, slowly resolving as it approached. The Tallarn clutched their weapons tighter; the Korpsman never flinched.

Moving like shadows, too graceful to be greenskins, Tallarn approached in one of their more standard search patterns. There were five of them, but very likely they had wounded being cared for by a rearguard. The Tallarn were never ones to leave their living tribesmen behind, no matter the state they were in. Al-Harba gave a whistle – the call of a native bird found in the oases of his desert home world.

'Mehmet al-Harba, is that you?' al-Dukhan's voice could be heard from one of the larger shadows. Al-Harba's heart soared at the sound.

'Abu al-Dukhan, I worried I'd never set eyes on your portly hide again!' al-Harba laughed as he came out of the foxhole, falling from his forgotten wound, 'The God-Emperor is truly smiling on us today, is he not?'

'He is kind in all things, Mehmet al-Harba.' al-Dukhan nodded but sounded unconvinced.

'Are there others with you?' al-Hakim asked as he approached, supporting the wounded Korpsman.

'Aye,' al-Dukhan said slowly, eyeing Reich bitterly, 'we brought what wounded we could.'

'We scoured the ruins,' Reich said, 'how did you find survivors when we couldn't?'

'The Desert Raiders are experts at recovering buried comrades.' al-Harba explained.

'We would not be buried in the first place if it were not for the Krieg.' another Tallarn spat.

'At ease, brother guardsman,' al-Harba made a placating gesture, 'Aaron Reich of Krieg was with us in the bombardment; he holds no responsibility.'

The outspoken guardsman grumbled, anyway, turned away. Al-Harba could see several others of his brothers eyeing the Korpsman with unfettered hate. If he had not been rescued by them, would he look at them any differently, he wondered. Already two of his comrades came forward to help support him, al-Dukhan being one of them.

'Is Ali al-Shabh one of the wounded?' al-Harba asked.

'Alas, my closest friend is one of the dead,' al-Dukhan said, softly, 'he will write poetry for his wife, no more.'

Al-Harba was stunned. The three of them had served together in five campaigns across just as many planets. Al-Shabh had had such amazing luck on each of them. Al-Harba had been given over to the idea that, with so many Tallarn survivors already, al-Shabh would naturally be one of them. The man had been blessed with durability for such a wiry frame.

'Poor Jasmin al-Shabh…' al-Harba noted. Al-Shabh's civilian wife was in the rear of the Imperial lines with all the other civilian attendants who inevitably followed Militarum regiments on campaign. 'How will we tell her?'

'I will tell her,' al-Dukhan said, face hardening, 'it is not your burden to bear. We were brothers, he and I.'

Al-Harba nodded. There was no closer bond than brothers baptized in battle – only blood brothers could compete.

'Leila al-Jamila…' al-Harba started, 'is she alright?'

Al-Dukhan bit his lip, but finally spoke.

'We found her unconscious,' he explained, 'she lost a lot of blood.'

'Will she live?' al-Harba asked, visibly shaken.

'I pray to the God-Emperor this will be so.' al-Dukhan said.

'Where is she?' panic crept into the wounded Desert Raider's voice, 'I must see her!'

'Be at ease, Mehmet al-Harba!' al-Dukhan restrained his friend, 'She is safe – as safe as is possible in a place like this.'

'We should focus on returning to our lines.' Reich said, 'Otherwise, we're all dead.'

'True words, Korpsman.' al-Dukhan said. Al-Harba found it odd his comrade had not referred to Reich as "brother guardsman". Considering the Krieg had just shelled them all to Hell, it was hardly surprising there was little camaraderie.

The guardsmen made their way towards the Imperial lines, westward through abandoned trenches. The only clue as to what the land had been before the Krieg converted it was a lone, bombed-out cathedral, the sole remains of the village that once stood there. Even the Krieg would not willingly tear down a cathedral, and for that al-Harba was thankful. He needed every shred of evidence that the Korpsmen were indeed human.

The roaring of engines was almost upon them, throaty roaring and the stench of dirty promethium. Al-Harba eyed the fog behind them which was occasionally broken by powerful light.

'We cannot outrun them,' he noted at last.

'No, we cannot,' al-Dukhan agreed, 'and the Krieg will begin shelling once they hear their approach.'

'What can we do?' asked al-Hakim.

'There is nothing we can do,' al-Dukhan shook his head, 'this is the end.'

'We stand and fight,' Reich spoke up, 'as true sons and daughters of the Imperium.'

'Your fatalism is appreciated, Korpsman, but not shared,' spat a Desert Raider.

'I thought you Tallarn were supposed to be a warrior people,' Reich shot back, emotion bleeding into his usual monotone, 'born of a world at war, bred to fight and die for the Emperor!'

'We do not throw ourselves into impossible fights!' roared al-Dukhan, nearly dropping al-Harba, 'We actually _value_ our lives!'

'Cowards!' roared Reich, pushing himself away from al-Hakim and rolling into a foxhole.

At the accusation, wounded and unwounded alike unsheathed their daggers and swords, spitting curses at the Korpsman. They would surely have killed him if al-Harba didn't speak up. It was then, he realized, that he was the highest-ranking survivor – a mere sergeant.

'Sheath your blades, brother guardsmen!' al-Harba snapped, 'Aaron Reich of Krieg is not to be harmed, not by his fellow man! Pull yourselves together!' he turned to the Korpsman drenched in mud, 'As for you, how _dare_ you accuse us of cowardice? You have no knowledge of our ways! You do not know how the Tallarn make war!"

'You place the worth of your lives above the Imperium!' Reich said.

'You are a fool if you believe that,' al-Harba shook his head.

A moment of silence passed over the group, broken only by the approaching sounds of war engines.

'What are your orders, Sergeant Mehmet al-Harba?' al-Dukhan asked, softly, making sure to use his full rank.

Al-Harba eyed his comrades one at a time, trying to find a solution. Among the salvaged equipment was a single missile launcher – the Tallarn heavy weapon of choice – and enough lasguns to arms the unwounded. Grenades were still in ample supply, much easier equipment to carry than lasguns or heavy weapons. Similarly, laspacks were abundant. A plan began to form in his mind.

'We fight as true sons and daughters of the Imperium,' he said at last, 'Place the wounded in the foxholes, along with the missile launcher team.'

'Are you insane?' a belligerent Tallarn demanded, 'We have three frag missiles and one krak missile! Between us, maybe five krak grenades! This is not enough to destroy their fleet of war engines.'

'We do not have to destroy them all, brother guardsmen,' al-Harba said, 'merely enough to halt their progress.'

'Strike and fade,' al-Dukhan muttered.

'As swiftly as the desert asp,' al-Harba nodded.

The Desert Raiders offered no more protest, setting their wounded down in foxholes before hiding beside them. They lifted their scarves to veil their faces and waited for the roaring engines to come within range. They would not wait for the massive, ramshackle machinery to break through the fog, only long enough for their hulking forms to be within range. In this they relied on Reich's keen sight, listening to his advice despite their animosity. Finally, with the fog lights bearing down on them, al-Harba gave the order.

'Blind them!' he snapped.

Las-fire cracked smartly from as few lasguns as possible, shattering the fog lights with the precision of desert marksmen. A few orkish voices could be heard roaring in pain as heated glass exploded over them. The wall of vehicles stopped as their lights went out, one by one. Sporadic gunfire stitched the sky and earth, missing the guardsmen hiding in their foxholes.

'Raiders, advance!' al-Harba hissed over the vox-network.

Silently the unwounded Tallarn crawled out of their foxholes and rushed to the sides of the nearest vehicles, firing expert shots at emerging orks. The greenskins were utterly surprised, not expecting the humans to be right outside their vehicles. Every time a hatch was opened, a Tallarn shot the unsuspecting ork while another lobbed a frag grenade through the portal. They must have cleared five mismatched trukks before al-Harba gave his next order.

'Fade!' he snapped.

Like shadows melting before a light, the Desert Raiders slipped away before the orks knew what hit them. Startled, the greenskins turned their weapons on each other. The advance halted down the line as battlewagons, trukks and warbuggies, turned towards the erupting war. The entire fleet devolved into a demolition derby as trukks rammed into each other, guns blazing for all the good the lack of accuracy did. For good measure, the missile launcher crew put a krak missile through the driver's portal of a massive battlewagon.

'It seems our retreat is covered,' al-Harba smirked at an unfazed Reich.

'This will only keep the orks occupied so long,' the Korpsman said, 'Still, you're right. We should take advantage of the time it'll give us.'

'We should take them now, while they're distracted!' al-Hakim insisted.

'You have not faced greenskins,' al-Dukhan said, 'The biggest will reassert authority soon, then they'll continue their advance.'

'But their vehicles are wrecks,' the young Tallarn noted.

'That's never stopped them from working,' Reich pointed out.

As if to highlight this point, a warbuggy with only three wheels and a flaming engine slammed into an immovable battlewagon before reversing. Miraculously, as with all ork technology, the vehicle worked as if nothing were wrong with it, its lone rider screaming in anarchic ecstasy.

'Move out, Raiders,' al-Harba ordered, 'as fast as we can with our wounded. We don't have much time!'

The Tallarn helped carry their wounded and hobbled as quickly as humanly possible towards the west. For the first time since the shelling, al-Harba was falling for the idea that they might survive, after all.

God-Emperor willing.


End file.
